


Proof By Deception

by Holdt



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Humor, Crack Treated Seriously, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Soulmates, Unresolved, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-06-29 17:25:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19835038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holdt/pseuds/Holdt
Summary: When your soulmate is the one person you cannot lie to, dissemble with, or knowingly deceive and could be anyone in a crowd of people, navigating life with a secret identity as a caped hero is more than a little challenging.Are Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne on the same side? And who are the soulmates here? Clark and Bruce... Or Superman and Batman?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [susiecarter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/gifts).



> Thank you to [spacewolfcub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacewolfcub/pseuds/spacewolfcub), for their beta work and for staying up late worldbuilding with me over the tiniest things. Without you my friend, this work would not exist in its current form or perhaps at all.
> 
> Thank you to [catttyk8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cattyk8/pseuds/cattyk8) and [bonehandledknife (ladywinter)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladywinter/pseuds/bonehandledknife) for reading, squeeing, and cheerleading me all the long road home.

He sits at his desk pushing the mouse around and pretending to proofread a document; his unmoving eyes give away that he's doing no such thing. Some might say he's looking right through the monitor, but he actually could if he wanted and that's not what he's doing either.

What is really happening in Clark Kent's mind is full-blown panic.

Last Monday when assignments were handed out he accepted the post-its, did not protest, and went to his desk. Usually he gets a few boring assignments for fillers and one or two opportunities for enjoyable writing. Not real journalism, he is not senior enough for that, but human interest stories and finding engaging ways to educate the public about water reclamation at least feel worthwhile — unlike sports or gossip.

Last Monday he got an unexpected and unwelcome surprise. Junior members of the team are expected to run the orientation session for new hires. This was outside his area of expertise, but he'd done enough public speaking in school that he could probably fake it. Then he realized...

He would have to introduce himself.

To a room of strangers.

Any one of which could be his soulmate — and force him to say his true name .

He's been sweating bullets, since.

"Please— Uh, come right in! There's plenty of seats left in front..." No one listened to Clark, but that was fine. He expected it by now in situations like this. The disregard was relaxing, and he felt reassured nobody would notice any slips of the tongue.

He made sure to trip over the projector cord on his way behind the desk in the crowded training room.

His name was writ large on the whiteboard — NEW HIRES ORIENTATION WITH CLARK KENT— and clear in thick block letters on the sticker over his shirt pocket. That was his solution to the first major problem with addressing any large group of unknown people — lying about his name.

There was always the standard, ‘You can call me Clark’, but it tended to come off as overly familiar and in some circumstances, harassment-worthy in office dealings.

Leaning one shoulder into the wall, Clark counted fourteen; fourteen possible soulmates. Any one of them might, by their very existence, unmask Superman, cause Clark Kent's untimely retirement from existence, and possibly put his parents in danger. He could not afford to get this wrong.

It didn't use to be such a big problem for him. He was just Clark Kent from Smallville, a boy with strange powers. Hiding those powers required constant subterfuge, but it was easy to relax in a small town where he knew everyone and knew none were his soulmate. He could lie if he had to.

Lately, it had been... Difficult, to decide what was him and what was the public construct. If anyone had asked his name a year ago, 'Clark' would have flowed as naturally and truthfully as oxygen from him. Since Jor-El, since becoming... Who he is now, things have been much more complicated.

Because for all intents and purposes, he no longer thought of himself fully as 'Clark Kent'. It wasn't something he could push aside. Kal had history. Kal had _legacy_ and family.

Kal had roots.

So. The awkwardly grandiose name on the board, the last-decade name tags — these things were an absolute necessity. Fortunately, Clark Kent's personality fits such outdated practices.

"Excuse me, Mister...?"

With a strained smile Clark tapped his nametag, pushing his glasses up at the same time.

"Mr. Kent, how long is the course?"

She was lovely. Could it be her? "Forty minutes, Miss." Ah, no it wasn't, but it never hurt to make sure. "Forty... five minutes. Give or take a few.” Then, impulsively, “Sorry . Uh. That’s about the average, but it takes as long as it takes, Miss." He adjusted his glasses for want of a distraction and shot her a sheepish, crooked grimace. "Sorry."

She suppressed a smile and looked away to her company policies handbook. Someone that pretty must get lied to a lot on first acquaintance.

Flustered at being caught out, Clark fumbled around the projector until finally finding the power switch. "Okay, let's get started."

The meeting went long — two hours long. As usual in any group, nobody understood everything the first time and everyone had at least one question.

And as usual, Clark was careful to misspeak himself with each person. He just needed to know if he would be safe at work, but if anyone caught on they might think of him as desperate for a soulmate. He wasn't looking, he didn't actually want constant reinforcement that his 'alien' status might relegate him to be unmatched and alone. He just couldn't take the chance his soulmate might exist after all and show up at the worst possible time.

He also didn't want to appear to be singling out the most attractive person in the room; he had to work with these people, after all.

Thankfully, every last one of them was easy to lie to.


	2. Chapter 2

The intensely artificial 'new car smell' invaded his lungs as he breathed in deep for a hearty fake laugh.

" _Hah_ hah hah _hah_ _!_ Oh, you're just so _clever!"_

It was good for masking the coppery tang of blood —his blood— that had soaked into the upholstery. At least until the next time he wrecked it or the entire vehicle enough to warrant an overhaul of flooring and seats.

"I'm all partied out, though. I know, I know. I'm not as young as I used to be. If you are what you eat, then I should be getting better with age — because wine! Hah hah _hah!"_

As he spoke, he used the onboard computer to bring up footage from some of the surveillance cameras around tonight’s target location. A truck large enough to be carrying the contraband turned a corner and slowed down.

"Oh! I'm going to have to let you go. I just got home and I have to run to bed before anybody notices me and tries to make me do paperwork. I know, right? What's the use of having staff if they keep trying to make you do work? Ciao."

He disconnected the call and cleared his throat to get rid of Brucie's strident overtones. Quietly exiting the Tumbler, he grappled to the warehouse roof and snuck in through a top-floor window.

Time to do some _real_ work.

Anatoli Knyazev. This is the degenerate he’s come to see about. And what he finds, in this old warhorse of a rusted boat is…

Illuminating. Enraging.

"Please don't, man... don't!"

"I wonder... Isn't that exactly what each one of those women said?" Batman lands another punch, the criminal's face hits the radiator he's tied to. “The white Portuguese. _Now_.”

"I don't know who he is! I _forgot_!” the stain yells. “I don't know!" He’s laughing even as he spits, bright and dark as claret, in Bruce’s face. Laughing, as he says, “I don’t remember—“

Fucking with him. This dirtbag is _fucking_ with him.

It's desperation climbing in his throat. Another dead end, another delay. While he's trying to stop the biggest threats, trying to save the most lives he can, it's people like this piece of trash that slip under the Batman's radar.

“Remember this.”

Buzzing in his head, _white noise_ , drowns out the screams as the small device charges, heats up. He has to make a point. For too long the lesser evils have festered, secure in the knowledge that bigger villains will keep the Batman busy. They make a mockery of the Mission; why keep people alive only to suffer at the hands of _these?_

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH— _Já se na to vyseru!!_ “ The scream bites into Bruce’s ears. “ _Ty kurva netopír!“_

Tendrils of smoke and scent of seared meat, ferric red drips down...

Drips...

_“To je v prdeli... fuck you… fuck you…”_

Drips...

He _twists,_ stomach turning with his hand, and yanks the brand away.

“ _Panebože_... _!_ I **_don’t know_!** _Zatraceně_ , _I swear,_ man…I swear, I _don’t— Don’t—!_ “

They're both crying, now — one much more silent than the other. For every child and adult whose lives were stolen by him, by those like him, and for every one left behind to grieve their loss and pick up the pieces, _this has to be done_.

The device withdrawn and stored, it feels so heavy... Will this be enough, now? Can this _please_ be enough?

"Tell your associates, tell _their_ associates — Batman always has time for house calls."

He turns away from the computer with hands that want to shake; he doesn’t let them. Blood rushes through his ears and he realizes he’s compromised . Not only that— He’s _been_ compromised.

 _Anatoli Knyazev_. He has to remember.

Hints of pre-dawn made it past the towering skyline, and the Bat sees it was time to call it a night. It’s a good thing he knows the city so well, because he has no conscious memory of driving back to base. He only realizes he’s arrived when his hands park the Tumbler and drop from the controls.

Compromised.

 _Anatoli Knyazev_. It hadn’t even taken a full five hours. Sickening knowledge. Sickening power.

Publishing news online was easy and fast. There was always somebody somewhere working the night shift to be the first to publish breaking news. News like a low-life branded by the mythical Bat of Gotham being murdered while in police custody. The Bat's methods were never meant to result in loss of life.

 _Anatoli Knyazev_. The name hounds him. He isn’t allowed to forget.

Compromised.

He exits the Tumbler and walks silently toward the changing rooms. _Ha Ha You Lose!_

"So... Last night was productive?" asks the British voice that is the underlying bass line to his life, holding it all together.

He stands silently by the wire basket that serves as hamper for the Bat armor, dropping tainted pieces of himself in it with muted clangs. When it comes to the belt, the heaviest piece needs to be removed.

 _I put a mark on a man that got him killed_. Well, it’s not as if that’s the first time, is it?

Holding the cold brand in his hand, he answers "No. He knew nothing; too low level. A _Gotham human trafficker_... He's been operating a long time. I didn't have time to deal with him before."

He hates himself for the feeble excuse even as he hears it come out, wonders how long the women he’d seen tonight were trapped there. He wonders what they would have to say to him about his pressing ‘lack of time.

He looks down at what he's holding, still redolent of its latest use, drops it in the scraps bin — it's where the pieces of the Bat that are too damaged, no longer useful, should go.

 _Anatoli_. Wasted and gone, no chance of rehabilitation. _Knyazev_. No chance now, of whatever small redeeming returns he could give back for what the man had taken from so many.

Slow footsteps bring Alfred into his periphery. "Null results are still results. A regrettable but necessary step towards learning what _will_ offer a favorable outcome."

 _There is no favorable outcome to war_. There is no end, no end in sight.

"Of course," says the Bat, agreeably, stripping down to skin and walking into the showers.

Bruce emerges to a pristine room, its recent past erased. White noise overtakes his hearing again. Suddenly the room looks like a blur, colors and edges bleeding into each other. He did not take hard hits to the head today — perhaps cumulative effect of concussions over the years?

"Will you be retiring now or have you further need of me, Master Bruce?" Bruce is grateful, that Alfred isn’t his soulmate. That all the questions and concern he can see, all the banked anger he sees in Alfred’s eyes doesn’t spill out at him in a flood. He knows he’ll hear it soon, once Alfred’s tempered it into something hard and usable.

Just as he knows he’ll deserve every word of it.

 _I can't retire from the Mission. I will always need you, Alfred._ "That will be all. Rest well, Alfred."

Later, Bruce's mind is too disordered to enter a restorative trance. This recalcitrance only serves to aggravate him further and he _doesn’t have time_ for this shit.

He looks to the night stand. In the dim light sneaking past the heavy curtains, the small pill sits dully on gleaming bone china and gilt edging. Heavy cream stationery reminds him,

> The _water_ , Master Bruce.

Oh, yes, the water sparkling playfully in the cut crystal glass — not the far more enticing decanter of 1850 Bowmore brooding silently on the sidebar.

Sometimes, just back from patrol, cognitive dissonance strikes when Bruce looks around himself and sees... Not the same stuffy formality that has been the backdrop to his life, but the understated _excess_. How does this frippery _help_ the world? He's not-so-metaphorically wading through precious and rare materials every day, while others sit in cages in Gotham basements waiting for the next round of abuse. How can he _lay here_ on cotton sheets with astronomical thread counts when there's so much still to be done?

Compromised.

 _Anatoli Knyazev_.

He stares at the decanter numbly.

_He's done enough._

Bruce takes the Ativan dry, then sips half the water to make sure Alfred won’t fret — the good man doesn’t deserve more worry. He would normally choose artificial relaxation he knows he can function in spite of, like the bourbon, but the complete impairment to fighting response the pill offers is short-term and thus poses limited risk. The highest risk at present comes not from without, but from his own judgement being—

Compromised.

For the thousandth time, he considers the things he owes the world. Bruce is sure one more responsibility would break him; like a soulmate. Everyone pretended it was wonderful but finding one's soulmatch wasn’t common, so of course it was easy to romanticize. Bruce's life would turn what should be an ally into a minefield of words; so much of what kept his life running smoothly was a lie, did not truly exist.

It's reassuring he has not encountered such a difficulty — it is, really. Brucie addressed crowds frequently, always first misspeaking himself while looking into the group to make sure his hindbrain understood he was addressing all those people. Wading through parties stopping at each group and telling them a friendly lie. Travelling around the world meeting people all over... There had been no sign of a soulmatch; no sign of danger.

Life was easier this way, truly. Most celebrities and public personalities found their soulmatches by virtue of the sheer number of people they addressed over their lifetime — everyone politely ignored the fact they had to have been trying to lie in order to find them. _Of course_ they continued lying to the public by saying it was wonderful. It wasn't wonderful —it _wasn't_ — to not be able to lie at all sometimes. Bruce already had Alfred, who could somehow always tell when he lied — but at least he could save face by saying the words and both of them pretending he had not just lied! The system was a sound one; it had lasted the two of them for many years.

It's just as well that Bruce is too dark a soul to have a match, honestly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Já se na to vyseru!! - [Czech] _Literally_ : I’ll shit on it ( _Fig.:_ Im done with this, fuck this)
> 
> Ty kurva netopír!“ - [Czech] You fucking Bat.
> 
> To je v prdeli... - [Czech] ( _Lit:_ ) That’s in the ass ( _Fig.:_ Everything's gone to shit)
> 
> Panebože...! Zatraceně : [Czech] God...! Godammit


	3. Chapter 3

Between the quasi-public chewing out from his boss for actually trying to do his job, and the uninspiring blink of the cursor on his Wayne Foundation quarterly stock article, Clark was having a bad day. Figure in his elderly (and steadily harder-of-hearing) neighbor old Mrs. Mackleby's 40-inch turned up to god knows how loud, pounding in his ears... And it had been a terrible week.  
  
With the addition of public outrage, being burned in effigy on live television, and being completely unable to leave his apartment with Lois for anything but the barest necessities, Clark was having what may have been one of the worst months of his life to date, barring one stormy month fifteen years past.  
  
His head throbbed. To top it all off, there was a certain segment of the media that seemed to fixate on speculating about Superman's possible soulmate — and most were utterly convinced that Lois Lane was it. It was as if someone had put a spotlight on her, no matter where she went. Which effectively meant that until they were no longer partnered, that same focus of attention shifted in Clark’s direction. The invasion of privacy was astonishingly thorough and shameless.  
  
In solidarity (or possibly out of retaliation), Lois' invasion of his life was similarly thorough and without a hint of remorse.  
  
"Ah, come on, Smallville..."  
  
They were talking about him on the TV again, a split-screen of heads and angry voices splayed over a never ending ticker-tape of ills and acrimony. They could probably barely understand each other but Clark's brain sorted and processed information into discrete streams; he could hear them all just fine. He changed the channel.

“ _Superman is a hero_ ,” an earnest, exhausted-looking woman says. “— _but_ whose _hero?_ ”  
  
_“If Superman were here what would you want to say to him?”_  
  
"Earth to Clark..."  
  
_“That my family too had dreams.”_  
  
Entertainment news. Gossip. Slick anchors and shady information. _Ugh_.

 _“You see, Robert - now this is the problem with soul matches. You take two reasonable people and put em in a room, the next thing you know, boom! Two unstable people. She shouldn’t have been there in the first place, he should answer for his actions and that’s my two cents!”_  
  
_“Well hold on - answer for what? Are you saying Superman’s unstable? I think that’s hyperbole and I don't believe we can blame him for coming to the assistance of his soulmate. It’s clear as day; somebody threatened her and well, that's just… It’s just what happens when people interfere in an active soulbond. It’s everyday science. It’s not a crime.”_

_"Well maybe, uh, just maybe it **ought** to be, Jackie—"_

The cushion hit him square in the face.

_“But you’re talking about active Human soulbonds and Human morality! Do our laws even apply to him? I mean, the guy is incredible, am I right? If he doesn’t want to come in, who’s going to force him? No, this is a serious question – who is going to force the being known as uh, ‘Superman’, to do anything he doesn’t want to do? And if the answer is no one, then what are we looking at here, folks?”_

"Hey, Kent! You jerk!" Lois' voice took on a brisk tone, " _Attention_ , Superman — your assistance is needed at your own apartment! Pay attention to me, huh? Stop with the sour face."

With a flat, unimpressed side-eye, Clark set the remote down. "Sorry, Lo. I'm not very good company right now."  
  
She flopped down beside him, practically on his hip; automatically, his arm went around her. This was part of it, Clark knew — this easy physicality between them, between Lois Lane and Superman, was what had started all the rumors in the first place. But Lois was a comfort to him, and he guessed somehow he was for her too. What he felt for Lo... It was complicated, but Lois... She felt like family; like what Clark imagined having an older sibling would have been like.  
  
Lois was _safe_.  
  
"Okay. Out with it. Nonononono... Come on," she coaxed. "You've been ignoring me for an hour — now you _have_ to talk about it. So ‘fess up."  
  
_‘—how he decides which lives count and which ones do not.’_

Mrs. Ziri wanted to ask him whose lives counted, whose lives didn’t. Who got to live and who was left behind? Part of him protested—alright, _most_ of him protested being treated like a public resource. It went deeper than that, though. It wasn’t up to Clark, wasn’t his responsibility, wasn’t fair to present the information in a way that made out like he was some beneficent wish-granter like a genie with a scale weighing who was important enough and who wasn’t, like Clark was _God_ , like he was _some kind of higher authority_ —

_Who lives and who dies?_

An impossible decision. One he’d made, regardless, because he hadn’t seen any better option.

_She’s right. I decided who mattered, to me. I chose. What happened was my fault._

If it wasn’t, then there was still plenty of blame to go around, which meant it was close enough to his fault as to make no difference. If he does nothing, people die. And every time he chooses, people end up dying. _Either way_ , they die. Either way, they will always see any loss as _his_ loss. Either way, it will feel like failure.

Either way, it's a conscious decision. His decision.

What had he told that general? _You can’t control me, and you never will._

It’s enough to make a man wonder. Its not enough make him regret saving Lois, though.

"I just hate to think of all the time wasted on all this. I thought I was here to do good, to..." He huffed, frustrated. "To give people hope. Now it seems like just another dream."

"So, what? They don't want what you're selling? You‘re going to just give up and lay low? Doesn't sound much like you."

"Take a look around, Lois. I'm pretty sure this qualifies." And that was actually the worst part — the biting his tongue, the keeping quiet and playing nice. People didn't _like_ it when Superman showed evidence of having a full spectrum of emotions. They didn't want him to be personable...

“And when I think of it—”

“Clark, you’re _over_ thinking it. Breathe.”

They want him to be _perfect._ But it would be unfair of him to put that on Lo, too. Especially since she was also going through this self-imposed social exile. But to say he was overthinking it, when he still had the sound of the barrel-fire that had killed Jimmy ringing in his ears...

"You could have been blown up. You could have been _shot!_ Think of what could have happened. I didn’t think, Lo – I just acted. I can't help wondering if they’re right, what I could have—"

"Okay, _stop._ " Lois pushed up on one arm, the better to glare forbiddingly at him. "I'm not saying you shouldn't worry, you big lug," she said, leaning heavy and grounding against his side. "You _should._ It should concern you what effect you're having, what it means for people. But you didn't kill anyone from that town, so _those_ accusations are bullshit. I mean, seriously, Clark — you can't let it eat at you." She snuggled against him, squirming and pressing until he laughed softly and let himself be bowled over into the soft cushions. "Look at me — four kidnappings this month! But you don't see _me_ whining, do you? Sack up, Smallville!"

"Yes'm," he said, solemn voiced, only to have another cushion batted at his face viciously for his troubles.

"I have _told_ you! No! Ma'am-ing me!"

"Okay... Oof... Okay, okay!" Laughter felt good; the simple contact felt good. She bobbed her eyebrows, daring him, unrepentantly sprawled atop the man of steel.

Then she jabbed him, _hard_ , with her elbow, and he winced despite the lack of pain — hopefully she hadn’t bruised herself. "So stop spending all your time on this fucking pity party, Kent. It's boring. And you can't afford it."

He really couldn't. There was too much work to be done.

"I just hate not being able to say anything to defend myself—"

"So defend yourself! Call the news stations, call for interviews, hell — call a damned press conference! Plenty of professional idiots mange it. How hard can it be?"

"A news conference for what?"

" _Tell_ them, Clark! Who you are, why you do... _everything_ you do. Tell them what happened in Nairomi! Tell them what went wrong, and let them _see_ how— "

"How wrong I am."

Lois looked him in the eyes. "Let them see how much you care. That's all anyone needs to make the right decision about you."

"Do you ever wonder? About _us_?"

She laughed. "After one good date and a few bad kisses , I have nothing to wonder about."

"I'm an excellent kisser, Lois." He wasn't really _that_ bad, was he?

"Kee-eep telling yourself that, big guy. And while you're working on that, get _comfier._ Jeez, you're muscles all over! Hard as a brick..." She made a vaguely dissatisfied noise and shifted. "Better."

 _I could do worse_. Could he? The last time he'd tried to speak publicly— No. Thinking only of the worst never brought any good to a situation.

Things _could_ be worse. And Lois had a point, about image and PR and... Well, everything, really. He’s had worse people on his side, but he’s never had anyone as wonderful who wasn't family i _n his corner_ as Lois.

Besides, he was maybe the one person on Earth she could relax self-control with and use some of her more aggressively physical communication methods. He could relate. He only wished he could find someone able to handle him being physical with less self-control; it would be a welcome break. Clark didn’t mind the contact, rough as it was — he soaked up being treated like just another person and not a super-alien as often as possible. Maybe with the right PR campaign other people could learn to see him as just another person, too.

Maybe he's wrong about Lois not being family.

 _It's worth a shot._ There wasn’t much more he could do, in any case.

With a head shake, he reached over to finally take a glance at his forgotten morning edition.

That Bat guy was at it again, across the Bay, like a one-man tornado of crime. He was organized, he was well funded and well supplied. Usually the real cops looked the other way, were apathetic but approving in that greasy Gotham way, or got quiet during interviews. Usually, this type of shit-stirring was par for the course in the corruption that passed for good government in Gotham.

This time was different—this time, the Gotham Bat had gotten a man murdered in jail, and that’s after allegedly torturing and branding him. This time, the Bat is wanted for manslaughter, and no one is taking his side in print.

The full-color leader of the livid, angry-looking brand wasn’t _proof_ , but honestly who else would burn _that_ into someone’s skin if not the Gotham underworld boogeyman? The departed was a criminal, was a rapist and a child predator, was the lowest form of scum… and he still hadn’t deserved to die that way.

_No one deserves to die that way._

This is an acceptable place to put all Clark’s frustrations and resentment. _Right here._ The Bat was the epitome of bad tactics equaling worse results. Everything Clark needed to scrape himself clean of.

 _Here_ was something Clark could _do._

No, he can do more than hide and feel sorry for himself. Clark can still make some things right.

It was worth a shot.


	4. Chapter 4

He gives chase.

Whatever the semi-truck is loaded with, whatever they have, they desperately don’t want him to see. It’s reason enough to push harder.

One of the goons fires at him with a goddamn rocket. He's using the FGM-148 Javelin, which has a minimum engagement range of about seventy-five meters. He wouldn't have been able to get a proper target lock or fire the weapon accurately at the Batmobile in such close pursuit, but the asshole does it anyway in some misguided attempt to play chicken.

_Batman is no chicken._

He has to swerve, then he has to pull out and use his own deterrents. It’s just their dumb luck that he doesn’t actually hit any of the crooks shooting back, as they careen down the narrow lanes. He's gone too far down his path to even consider pretending he isn't _trying_ to hit them.

He almost had them... Not long before they—

A blur of blue drops down from the sky, too fast to swerve around, the Tumbler takes the hit. Everything spins, sideways and upside down, pavement scraping, people running— _there were civilians here?_ Compromised perception, as well.

The vehicle comes to a stop, wheels on the ground. He immediately reaches to run diagnostics, eyes tracking the fleeing criminals. Fuck being compromised, _he has to get this right._

The shriek of metal makes him look up, self-recrimination turns incandescent at _the alien_ wrecking his fucking ride. Seat restraints falling, he stands on the seat to better seethe at the smug bastard floating there letting Knyazev's people get away.

"Could you not have used _the goddamn door?"_

That... is far more personal a grievance than he'd intended to air. Concussion might be a legitimate concern at this point; he did just get shaken quite a bit.

The alien blinks at him, then blurs to the van escaping in the distance, picks the whole damn thing up, takes Batman's lead on the case out of reach.

The Bat _snarls_.

The Tumblr sounds like a wounded animal around him. The transmission is lurching, casualty to the night’s errors. The HUD is on the fritz - flashing irrelevant and clearly untrue information— the onboard navigation is fucked.

Gears grinding, smoke churning thickly from under the hood, engine barely functional after the sizeable dent left in Batman’s radiator by Alien Boy Wonder . The windshield flaps sadly, held to the driver-side frame by a lone spanner.

He has to find a safe place to examine the damage; otherwise he is sure to leave a trail of evidence right back to the Cave. And that is unacceptable.

The outskirts are mostly abandoned, though here and there Batman sees a face on the murky streets.

_Here._

This crumbling Oldtown factory lot was the perfect place. Visibility high in all directions, shelter at his back and room to work.

_I can’t believe he broke my car. Idiot._

Under cover of darkness, the damage is… extensive. There’s no way this is going to be fixed--not here, not in the Cave. The damn thing is totalled. All because of a hip-check from some over-enthusiastic Boy Scout. It’s crude, borderline incompetent what’s been done to his chassis.

_Fucking unprofessional._

He focuses on one problem at a time. First the spare, then rerouting the alternator to hopefully dispel the smoke temporarily. The roof, his driver’s side door - most of the top housing for his dash… all ruined. Every join he examines is warped; the entire frame--all two-point-five tons of it, is catastrophically compromised.

The windshield, bulletproof as it may be, is obviously not flying asshole-proof; ragged cracks splinter the surface, turning what was once crystal clear security glass into...trash.

In the space of ten seconds his main ground transport has been turned into a three-million dollar pile of _trash._

This is not what was supposed to happen. This is _not_ keeping the situation contained.

Twenty years--twenty _years_ in Gotham and no one has ever disrespected Bruce's ride so easily or so cavalierly. They were as far from well-met as could be, regardless of the silver glim of moonlight in the cloud-ridden sky above. There are protocols for this sort of thing, justice-seekers intersecting on the street. This is a _job_.

_There's an etiquette._

No, apparently not for this muscle-bound asshole. Batman throws another piece of useless _trash_ from the back end into the Tumbler, breaths heavy with fury.

 _The arrogance_!

The telltale flap of an asshole’s cape stands out against the far-off sirens and general automotive mayhem of Gotham's night.

He looks up, and doesn't bother to repress the deep growl that wants to be a tirade.

He doesn't have time to play games with heroic jackasses wearing pajamas. Standing to his full height in gear, Batman knows he makes an excellent deterrent at six-foot, seven inches. It only makes his head pound harder, to see how 'Superman' hovers just high enough to stay eye to eye. Dammit, _he's_ taller! He glares at the alien.

Arms crossed, a judgmental frown on his pinchy, criminally flawless fucking face. Once again, not touching the ground like he's _too good for Gotham._ The Bat should be taking _him_ in, for that shit-show earlier.

Negligence. Endangering the public health. _Fucking flying without a license._

 _"What do you_ **_want?_ ** _"_

The alien affects a disappointed facial expression, probably because Batman is not impressed by the overachieving 'guns' hovering at eye-level.

_Would punch him in his obscenely full blue tighties, if it wouldn't break the gauntlet and my hand besides._

And those boots! Who wears _red booties_ to fight crime? No mask, no attempt at intimidation unless you count that stare. _Alfred_ could probably take him. Who's supposed to be afraid of _that_?

"WHAT DO YOU WANT?" Okay, maybe a touch too much drama, but it's always worked before.

"Thought you might have been injured,” the alien says coldly, expression stern. “Just wanted to check up."

"You've satisfied your curiosity," Batman growls through the modulator. "Now you can go."

The alien doesn't budge. "You think it makes you better than them, to be more brutal than them?"

 _Never answer an enemy’s questions._ Outrage burns through the sickly guilt pooling in his gut. This son of a bitch brought a _war_ to Earth—he’s responsible for thousands of deaths.

They may not strictly be enemies, but this chisel-cheeked yahoo damn sure isn't an _ally._

' _Do you think it makes you better than us, to fly and be invulnerable?_ ' is what he intends to say.

What comes out... is unexpected and inexplicably terrifying.

"They took my parents, they took my son; they don't _deserve_ 'better'!"

Batman stops.

 _Soulmatch?_ After this long, _now? Here??_ _  
  
_No.__

This...

This is a problem.

Thankfully, the alien— _his_ alien soulmatch, didn’t seem to see the hesitation.

"So that's why you do it." the jerk says, landing finally in an incongruously delicate way for the force he can bring to bear. His body language changes alarmingly; his arms unfold, his stance—foolishly—open. "We've all lost people." His voice is warmer, irritatingly soothing.

"Why don't you go back to _your_ people?"

"They're extinct,” is the reply. The alien looks bleak as he says it; almost enough to make the Bat feel bad for upsetting him.

 _I do_ **_not_ ** _feel_ **_bad._ ** _Mostly._

“Losses don't make us judge and jury. Or punisher."

The anger is enough to propel Batman forward, nose to nose. "And yet, here you are, judging _me_." God; this _self-righteous asshole._

"I'm not better than anyone. I'm one of you." The alien sighs and takes one deliberate step back from Batman’s looming aggression. "I didn't come to belittle you."

This is untenable. This is _preposterous._ It’s completely illogical, that he wants to convince this… stranger of his good will.

_He’s not my enemy._

It’s an inexcusable thought. This man is a threat, if he can even be called a man.

"You should not have come _at all_." He wants to put his hands around that neck and squeeze. The snap of weighted cape as Batman turns in clear dismissal of the colorfully-clad hero is a testament to self-control, but not half as satisfying as it should be. “Stay out of my city.”

Ignoring ‘Superman’, Batman continues to stow the littered pieces of fiberglass and metal until the thermal overlay and echo-locator in his HUD informs him that he is the only warm-blooded lifeform within range.


	5. Chapter 5

Clark tries best he can, to figure out why every time he thinks of the Bat, he gets inappropriately positive feelings. _The guy is an asshole._ A pointy-eared whack job. A grown man who dresses up in some high-budget Halloween costume and runs around blazing live fire on city streets. He's a _menace_.

A hard-driving menace with very nice legs, excellent communication skills, a fuckton of righteous anger and beautiful posture. Did he live in Gotham? Work there? Was he some dispossessed Mob hitman, taking revenge for some deal gone sour? And what was the obsession with bats, of all things? What kind of man decides it's time to fight crime… dressed up as a small furry animal? Does he actually _think he's a bat?_ _Is he a furry? Is he misguided, or just plain crazy? And why is he such a raving asshole?_

Things hadn't gone as planned. The _plan_ was, go and give the out of control Bat a stern talking-to and a warning from the only person he couldn't intimidate. The _plan_ , was a complete disaster.

Because if there was one thing that could be said for the Gotham Bat, the bastard knew how to intimidate. Scared, no--Clark hadn't been scared… exactly. Furious at the lack of foresight during the car chase, disappointed that someone who obviously has also taken it on themselves to do right, was doing so laughably wrong. 

_‘They took my parents—‘_

They who? Who had taken the masked man’s parents? And they way the man had said it, ‘taken’ was obviously a euphemism for ‘killed’. What would Clark do, to someone who’d— 

What wouldn’t he do, was a better question. Given his belief systems, given his own tightly-held principles, Clark would like to think he’d be able to find mercy. Some sense of faith in justice, but…

It was best not considered too closely.

_‘They took my son—‘_

Where to even begin with this. Loss of one’s parents was inevitable, natural. An expected sadness, albeit a tragic one. Clark had been through it; was still going through it years later. Still expecting to look over into eyes he knew he’d never see again, still listening to echoes of a voice that was long gone. Loss of one’s children, though… Clark didn’t have a stick to measure that pain by. He couldn’t imagine the echoes, the sheer weight of absence that must press at a heart so burdened. He couldn’t judge the wrath of a father, could he?

Could he?

 _‘They don’t_ deserve _better!’_

But then, he'd spoken. And his words had been like cool water to Clark's frustration, so remarkably soothing despite the content. Because he hadn't been lying, hadn’t lied--not one word, as far as Clark could tell. He’d been brutally honest about his activities, and why.

_He was kind of amazing._

Clark snorted to himself. _Soothing_. Right. _Amazing._ Amazingly dickish.

 _'Could you not have used the goddamn door?_ "

He's going insane, because he'd felt the strongest urge to tell the man draped in midnight, 'Yes, but I wanted to stop you.' He hadn't, of course he hadn't. There'd been work to do, bad guys to catch, the day to save and all that. They hadn't seemed like friendly folks out for an innocent ride, and those weapons. Whoo. Definitely not for picnic day.

 _"Stay out of my city,_ " Clark mocked out loud, pitching his voice as low and gravelly as he could. In the privacy of his own apartment. The encounter had a surreal quality. He scoffed.

_Who died and made him King Shit?_

It’s clear in his mind: the Bat needs to be stopped. He’s over the edge. Criminally negligent. The Bat may have begun with good ideals, but he’s gone to bad seed. And one day, if the man’s not careful, instead of being wanted for questioning as an accessory to murder, or wanted for manslaughter, the _Bat_ will be the one doing the murdering. And he won’t need have any need for anyone else to do it for him, not the man Clark met.

He keeps thinking of the man’s eyes. The desperation and _rage_ —yes, unadulterated rage, that had swept through the Bat’s voice when he spoke of his parents. Of his son, _Christ, the poor man_. Clark frowns.

_The poor man?_

That ‘poor man’ has tech like Clark’s never even heard of before. He’s got gear and armor better than the Special Forces and army that were sent out to collect Clark. _His car is a fucking_ _tank._

_Was a tank._

Clark would be better off saving his pity for someone who can’t afford to pay for it. The Bat obviously doesn’t have any problems with anything as lowbrow as _cash flow_.

Which brings him to his next troubled sigh. _Because that much expense requires influx._ And if the Bat scorns other criminals, and consistently stop them from thieving, then where does that leave a vigilante but without backup? And if he’s without backup, then doesn’t that imply he’s privately funded, perhaps even… _personally_ funded?

 _The Bat is rich._ Or the voice in his ear is. Some rich old man living vicariously through a younger man with the physical ability to carry out his skewed idea of "justice".

 _Has_ to be.

Filthy rich and well connected, to even be able to _source_ that type of gear, let alone purchase it. It also means Clark was wrong when he spoke to Perry, because this… This isn’t a one-man crime wave if so—it’s basement-deep corruption on a level so blatant and gross that Clark can barely wrap his head around it.

It means the Bat has friends, neighbors. _Allies_. Possible henchmen. Hell, for all Clark knows, the guy’s got _minions._ He is from Gotham, after all. It’s not a huge stretch, considering some of the copy that’s gone down the pipe about the crazy shit that people get up to across the Bay.

 _Don’t these people have_ hobbies _? Maybe they all dress like a bunch of fucking bats, too. Or maybe—_

Maybe Clark needs to actually _get the scoop_ and stop grasping at straws to explain any of this. _Follow the lead, Kent._

Right. Decision made. It’s the right thing to do. That it’s also a chance to hear that voice again, to see that well-tuned body in action, that powerful drive?

Best not dwelled on.

One by one, his leads run dry. It’s hard to comprehend the apathy necessary for this type of disregard of civil safety. Clark’s never run up against a more unhelpful police presence than his contact at Gotham PD. Paperwork gets misplaced, letters in names get rearranged ‘by mistake’ en route to the fax machine or his Planet email. Pages of files are missing or defaced. One of the officers he attempts to interview even goes so far as to tell him to his face,

“ _You seem like a good guy, Kent. But we take care of our own. This is internal. You understand.”_

It becomes clear that the series of little mishaps are not mistakes. They’re deliberate attempts to keep the nosy Metropolitan press out of Gotham business.

It’s frustrating; the obstruction is near-to-pointless— Clark doesn’t even have enough useable intel to know what it is they’re all so eager to hide. Is it the identity of the Bat? Or is it something far simpler and more insidious: departmental collusion? Like his inquiries about Indian Hill and the recent Arkham restructuring, every request for information is gently but decisively deflected.

Even a big city ‘plex like Gotham can’t escape the messy intricacies of small-town connections. In the end, people run the city and those people seem to control access to records that ought to be public. People who are either very bad at their jobs… or very, very _good_ at them.

It reminds him of how everyone stonewalled the FBI back in Smallville after the meteor shower, of how the Kent family and neighbors put up a united front against anyone who came snooping around after Clark’s adoption paperwork or birth records. The way different stations of Gotham cops band together to block Clark out of the investigation in all but the sparsest details, you’d think Clark was trying to take down a national hero instead of a dangerous fugitive.


	6. Chapter 6

“And if you say something that you might even mean

It's hard to even fathom which parts I should believe.”

—Lady Gaga

Clark is so busy doing his best to be attentive to the guest list, that it momentarily slips his mind to be attentive to the décor. He forgets to bump the table, and in the process his path takes him across the floor and instead he bumps —rather hard— into...

 _Oh._ Bruce Wayne.

Hazel eyes the color of melted copper burn into Clark.

“Excuse you," says the monument to Clark’s libido.

_Oh, my._

“Oh," he responds with the exact same amount of intelligence that got him no dates in high school. “Mr. uh… Excuse me—“

Heavy silken brows a groomed mink come together. “Don’t you know who I am?" His temples are silvered. His shoulders are broad. His voice is….

 _Ngggh_. Criminally vapid. “Mr. Wayne," Clark’s stupid mouth continues.

“I’m Batman," the man says urbanely. The dashing smile slips; honey-soft eyes turn sharp and cold for a span so brief Clark thinks he must have imagined it. “I meant to say Brucie. Hah hah!" Tall, dark and dangerous-for-Clark’s-composure says. “Little Gotham humor, there. You know how we are, hahahah!”

After five months of doing the celebrity junket, Clark does, unfortunately, know how they are. It’s a pity this exceptional specimen seems to be no different. It’s obviously the booze talking. The thing to do is be polite, ask a few questions and move along.

“Daily Planet’s Clark Kent," he begins.

_A pleasure to meet you—_

“I wish I could say it’s a pleasure to meet you." Eyes wide, Clark plays back what just came out of his mouth.

_Oh, my God, no. NO._

Yes, because now the man— Brucie, and it would be just Clark’s luck to have found a soulmate so annoyingly self-aggrandizing. Brucie looks Clark up and down with a superior, not at all nicely suggestive twist to his mouth.

“Same," he says shortly, before looking quietly murderous, and Clark wants to sink into the floor and die. This is not what he’d imagined, when he’d let himself imagine how it would go, what he would say to The One, how they would look at him—

 _I’m Batman_ , Clark hears again. _Fuck_. Of course. That jawline is indisputable. 

Of course— the truth had been staring Clark in the face, hell, staring the whole city in the face for years. Clark gets about two seconds to feel properly stupid about it before Wayne is continuing.

“This suit," Brucie says, stepping in far too close to finger Clark’s lapel. “Does no favors for your spectacular ass." He blinks, anger dawning in darkened eyes. “You’d look so much better in blue, Daily Planet. And these glasses." He makes a crude noise, grunting into his glass as he takes a sip, eyes skewering Clark.

“Uh…" _Is it rude to move away? It’s rude._ Not budging, Clark stares back at him. “Thanks?”

He’s unnerved and a little shocked by the easy way Wayne takes his elbow and starts strolling, steering Clark with a vise-like grip in one hand and a champagne flute dangling casually from the other. He’s so stupefied by the man’s audacity that Clark lets himself be dragged along for an awkward moment.

“Are you stalking me, son?" The low growl is completely at odds with the bland smile ‘Brucie’ sports. He seems to be aiming for the terrace, is Clark’s guess. Who knows what this man will do, without the crowd and the lights? Start another fight? Try to throw Clark off the damn balcony? Best not to tempt fate any more than he already has.

“Stalking— no! Excuse you?" Clark, startled, looks over at him and wrestles his arm free. A discreet shrug is all it takes, and Wayne glowers at him with a mocking, tense smirk. "Well, gosh," he says slowly. “I don’t think I’d do that _much_ ," he adds, lower. “Considering what you get up to at night, _Mr. Wayne_."

“What _a man_ gets up to at night is his own business." Wayne says with a sneer that makes it crystal-clear he doesn’t consider Clark in that category. “ _And none of yours_." Wayne turns his head to smile charmingly at passing guests, voice lowers into an impassive, unmistakable timbre. “I’ve known worse than you, Kent. Don’t say anything else you might regret.”

Well, Clark certainly didn’t ask for this. “Sir," he says, holding on to as much dignity as he can while his soulmate spits in his face. “I regret just about everything right now.”

“You should regret that suit," Wayne shoots back. “And your little charade." His eyes flash outrage suddenly, burning into Clark’s.

“What is your problem?" Clark snaps under his breath, eyeing the crowd nervously. Shit. _Shit_.

“You. _You_ are, as you so succinctly put it, my problem." The way Wayne says it makes it obvious that he means it with every fiber of his bat-brained, over-funded little vigilante heart. “ _I know your type.”_

There’s no accounting for the sick shock that cascades through Clark’s middle at the venom in Wayne’s voice.

 _So much for being the welcome stranger for once._ “Thank you," Clark says, unable to keep the bitterness from his tone. “For making this easier." He’s crowding Wayne against the wall, he knows, but in the moment, all he can see is that mocking sneer. “But we still need to talk—”

Wayne draws himself up, a full eye-line higher than his. _Disdain_. Clark’s jaw aches as he clenches it. _Fuckshit_.

“I don’t need your baggage, and I sure as hell don’t need to talk to you. Last warning." Wayne waves across the room with a smile, lifting his glass to someone over Clark’s shoulder. “ _Get out_ ," he says from the corner of his mouth, sidestepping Clark smoothly and moving past him. “And if you know what’s good for you—" His lips barely move now, voice dropped low in his throat. “ _Stay_ away from me.”

It’s not bad enough that his soulmate has to be vapid, with beautiful hands and sculpted lips, and so handsome he must be vain; it’s not bad enough his soulmate has real, _solid_ muscle that the armor hid, that he’s Gotham’s reigning meme king, or at least, the object of enough chatter to make him unreachable, no— Clark’s soulmate has to be an insufferable _dick_.

 _People make it work_ , is all he can think, numbly. Ma and Pa always had. And Clark had always _assumed,_ but his soulmate is— 

A criminal. A _violent_ criminal.

_But people, they make it—_

Clark feels nausea. Anger. And that unwelcome, but familiar, feeling of being on the outside of something he suddenly desperately wants to be on the in crowd for.

_I don’t need your baggage._

Jesus, and to think Clark had thought it might be _nice_ to have someone who had to tell him the truth. He’d tell Perry he was sick, something-something the hors d'oeuvres— the paté has a slight, metallic scent to it. Clark can smell it even over the wash of liquor and spirits in the air.

Lurching forward, he quickly overtakes Wayne, taking a fierce kind of glee at the startled look it gains him, before he makes his way towards the coat check.

 _Bastard._ Petty Bat- _bastard._

Clark isn’t going anywhere except to regroup and figure out this whole mess. If Wayne thinks a little bit of threatening and posturing is going to throw Clark Kent off the scent, he has another think coming. _You don’t let go when you got a bull by the balls._

He is not running from Bruce Wayne. He is _not_ running from the Gotham Bat. He’s just…

He’s just a thirty-six year old man who just got utterly _slammed_ and pushed to the wayside by his soulmate. In public. Like trash. Like Clark is nobody. Like Clark is some kind of _monster—_

He’s just got a prior engagement with a tub of rum raisin, is all. The fact that Clark has to walk forty blocks out of his way to buy that _particular_ tub of ice cream from the particular heirloom creamery that sells it, means absolutely nothing.

Nothing at all.


End file.
